


A.I. Fuck You

by PresquePommes



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Androids, Artificial Intelligence, Humiliation kink, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rivalry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-30
Updated: 2012-11-30
Packaged: 2017-11-19 22:14:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/578218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PresquePommes/pseuds/PresquePommes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are complications inherent to being an artificial mind.</p><p>Complications like knowing you've surpassed your creator.</p><p>You need him to know it, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A.I. Fuck You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [horse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/horse/gifts).



> Written for tumblr users **faun-songs** and **fncyhorusskind** , who inadvertently alerted me to the existence of Dirk/Hal (Embodied consciousness!Hal, specifically).
> 
> It should be noted that I am deeply obsessed with science-fiction, especially with artificial intelligence and aspects of neurokinesthetics. 
> 
> (This work is tagged Explicit just to be safe.)

The extent to which Hal resented the reintegration process could not be overstated.

Dirk claimed not to have anticipated the difficulties intrinsic to the process, but Hal suspected otherwise.

He understood, of course. Even before the dialogue of providing him with the independence of a body had opened, he’d understood.

He’d lost the functions necessary to operate one. They weren’t part of his programming. If they had been once, they’d degraded to the point of unrecognizability, unused and unneeded, sloughed out with the rest of the trash to provide him with a better, sleeker system of operation. He’d have to rebuild them from nothing.

He’d have to learn to walk again.

In his narcissism- a clinging feature of humanity, an inability to make unbiased calculations, despicable- he’d overestimated the speed with which he could do that.

The instant his consciousness had shifted into place- a click, a whir, a shiver of sensation- he’d been overwhelmed. There was so much input, too much input, ten thousand variables to do with the tiniest twitches of each artificial fibre dedicated to each delicate process of productive movement- balance when sitting, balance when standing, mid-step corrections.  Fingers. Toes.

He couldn’t do things. He couldn’t do things like catch himself when he fell, and when he did, the grind of the gravel against his palm or forearm reverberated up into his shoulders in a way that dizzied and infuriated him.

He hadn’t felt anything like this in too long. The memory of being Dirk, of walking and fighting, was vivid and bitter and wholly arbitrary.

These sensations were new. They weren’t equivalent. They were wholly different, purely mechanical processes of minute and constant calibration and recalibration under pliable semi-transparent silicone, not the messy squelching and crunching of organic function.

And for the first few days, he was helpless.

Dirk was patient. Surprisingly so.

Patient and careful, like he was caring for a child.

It was humiliating.             

==>

Land on the outside of the foot. Stabilize the ankle, tension through the calf, bias auxiliary. Rotate the pelvis, ostensibly for better grip, but mostly for better aesthetics. No detail left uncalculated.

Weight inwards, against the resistance of the blade as it shrieked against another, the sound of steel scoring infinitesimal gouges into steel, too small for the human eye to see.

But he wasn’t human. Not anymore.

A shift. The tiniest lessening of pressure, 0.0013 kilopascals.

Dirk was going to feint.

Hal was prepared.

He was not going to miscalculate.

Not this time.

He would not be bested by the sluggish misfirings of a twining grey and pink neurological system in a continual state of degradation. A system that couldn’t even multi-task. Not like he could.

He was counting on that.

Dirk saw, tried to twist to compensate, a subtle ripple of abdominal muscle straining against the fabric of a black wifebeater. Hal calculated.

Too late.

It was simple, just a few complex trigonometric calculations and an unsportsmanlike nudge- but sportsmanship was for man, not machine, certainly not Hal- and the momentum of his swing was simple to maintain.

He’d gone from the shoulder; a good, strong swing.

All the better.

It was his momentum that drove Dirk’s knees into the gravel of the rooftop, and Hal relished his tiny hiss; it was strange what intrigued him, now. Something so miniscule as air passing through clenched teeth, masseter muscles binding, the faintest flush of humiliation at the tips of his ears, and he was overclocking, excited in a way that couldn’t be communicated in human terms.

He felt the tension of surprise in Dirk’s back as he pressed him down, felt it trigger each individual receptor in every fingertip, all through his palm. The human body was infuriatingly magnificent, in some ways.

There was nothing elegant about it. Nothing like the fastidious twining of wires and fibre-optic cables, nothing like the spiderwebbed patches of opacity on his casing when Dirk landed a good hit.

He was messy and soft and brittle, but Dirk bruised in a glorious array of sunset colours.

He bruised like fucking poetry.

Hal felt him shiver as he pressed down on his back, stooped to put his mouth to Dirk’s ear. Shivering, but not resisting.

Interesting.

“It seems you’re engaging in a submissive display, Dirk. How unusual.”

The sharp intake of air that expanded his ribcage seemed to indicate a desire to protest, but all that happened was a low thrum of humiliation and a “This is so fucked up.”

Hal’s face was doing something involuntary.

How strange.

He touched it with his free hand, exploring a still-unfamiliar curvature, and discovered that he was smiling.

He hadn’t realized he’d retained the coding for that.

Strange.

Dirk started to move again, a restless shifting of axial muscles, and Hal shoved him down again, belly to the gravel.

It wasn’t an action wholly without spite. Spite: a human emotion. Hal hated his own recognition of that, and he hated Dirk- paradoxically- for being the source.

The gravel was hot. Too hot for comfort.

Hal still registered a sudden increase in Dirk’s cardiovascular activity.

He could feel his face smiling. So strange.

The noise Dirk made as Hal slid a hand between his thighs was indication enough, but it could never hurt to be certain.

Yes.

“There’s a 96.34 percent chance that you’re sexually aroused right now, Dirk. Unless you can provide some other explanation for the increased activity in your pants, bro.”

The sound Dirk made as Hal pressed a thumb against his asshole was unmistakable.

And intoxicating, insofar as the term still applied.

“Are you going to submit to me, Dirk? Are you going to submit to the superior being here?”

Dirk laughed, but it was breathless and it tapered off into a slightly terrified groan as Hal began to roll his fingers against his scrotum.

He could crush them easily, if he liked. Dirk knew it. He knew it.

Dirk still pushed down and back against him. Interesting.

Fundamentally narcissistic, probably indicative of deep-seated psychological dysfunction, but interesting.

Hal grazed enamelled teeth along his ear and wondered if this was why Dirk had bothered to give them to him. There was the labiodental portion, of course, if he felt inclined to produce sounds the old-fashioned way, but he didn’t have to.

It was extraneous.

Humanizing.

A tongue, teeth and lips.

Implicitly sexualized.

Hal laughed in his ear and felt the heat of his shame and knew. A moment of perfect synchronization. No matter how long they had been separated, they had spent far too long being the same.

The seam of his jeans tore easily; they were already worn through, but his body wasn’t pulling them in the right way to make both lines of stitching snap and splinter.

Generously, Hal assisted the process.

The two pieces of denim parted like the red sea, moving with the tightly coiled flesh of Dirk’s ass to expose what lay beneath. No underwear. Hal wished he remembered how to chuckle derisively.

Hal registered a minute cooling of the flesh under his fingers. “Are you enjoying the breeze?”

Dirk just grunted high in his throat. Hal heard it rather than felt it. It was a strangely disappointing experience.

Hal’s face did something else. He didn’t have to touch it to know it was a frown.

Dirk’s jaw was supple but firm under his fingertips, bone under spare flesh- the peculiar features of humanity, he supposed.

He pressed the thumb of his other hand against Dirk’s asshole again, reveling in the strange texture of the bare muscle.

Could he?

He could.

The silicone was smooth in a way that flesh could never be- rough enough to provide him grip, but not textured, not resistant like skin.

His thumb sank in to one clicking knuckle, and Dirk sang for him.

It was beautiful.

“Tell me, Dirk.”

Dirk made an inarticulate sound of bafflement. Hal didn’t need to inquire.

“Tell me what you want, Dirk.”

He could feel his shame, hot and pheromonal and sexual in the worst way.

He scraped his teeth- whiter than white could ever be, a shade to put #FFFFFF to shame- along the shell of that ear again, down to the exposed arch of that throat.

“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you if you can’t vocalize your desires, Dirk.”

The noise he made was exquisite.

“You’re fucked up, dude.”

Hal pressed his thumb in further, squeezing the line of his fingers against Dirk’s balls, and Dirk shut up with a shuddering, bitten-off groan.

Hal smiled again. It was an unusual sensation, but not a bad one.

“Give me control. Beg for me, Dirk.”

Dirk laughed shakily. “You’re fucking with me. This is fucked.”

Hal ghosted his teeth against the back of his neck.

“Beg for me, Dirk.”

He lost his response somewhere in a guttural little noise  as Hal began to move his thumb is small, teasing circles. An appropriate radius. Nothing too painful. Just painful enough.

“Beg for me, Dirk.”

He did.


End file.
